What is, would you think, one of the foremost problems that my Russian friends and relatives mention to me? Economy? Politics? Personal and family issues? Nope. It is immigrants in Europe. I hear genuine concern and aversion when my friends mention the number of Muslims in the UK or the fact that there are predominantly black arrondissements (city districts) in Paris.
This mystified me. I sensed that although they were talking about countries foreign to them, they perceived the situation as a personal threat. Why should this be so?
I postulate that it is my old frenemy, identity (or “ego”, or “self” – whichever you prefer) that is at work here. I also realised that the same mechanism works wherever people protest against feminism, contrary to all and any rational arguments. Very often, even women protest, to their detriment.
Continue reading “Whose life is this: yours or your identity’s? By Oxana Poberejnaia”
I am the mother of three adult children. I am also the mother of an addict living the nightmare of denial and the consequence of said addiction. Like many, my family of origin is riddled with alcoholics and addicts. I learned to “detach” (not always in love) from their demons, drawing clear lines in the sand for my own future. I thought a geographical relocation in another state would give me the distance and perspective needed to live my own life absent the insanity substance abuse can bring. When I discovered my spouse of then seven years was an addict my world fell apart. For the life of me I could not understand how this could happen—again. What did I miss?
The world at large might view artists and writers as free spirits rocking la vie bohème, but creative people know that it’s much more complicated than that, especially if we’re striving to earn even a modest living from our work. As a writer, I often fall into the trap of measuring my success or failure on factors completely beyond my control, such as the ups and downs of a fickle book buying market.
I caught myself reinforcing the norm. The ever present default 
I try very hard this election season to avoid reading about, watching, or listening to Donald Trump: the man is a liar, a cheat, a bully, a narcissist, a racist, a sexist, the list goes on. Yet even progressive commentators are talking almost exclusively about him. And now I am joining them–despite my best intentions.
Pelišky was one of the first movies I watched in the Czech Republic. It takes place in the year (maybe years) before the Soviet Occupation. It follows the lives and struggles of ordinary families. One of the best and funniest scenes takes place at a small post-wedding dinner. The couple receives some new-fangled plastic spoons as a wedding present. The gift-giver is very proud of the fact that they were made in Eastern Germany. One of the characters stirs her tea with the spoon and is about to lick it but as she takes it out of the hot tea it bends as if it was made of rubber. Soon the scene dissolves into arguments, frustrations and disappointments.
Separatism and dualism do not usually serve me. I understand that denying unity and reducing the multi-prismatic complexity of existence muddies up our vision of reality and can sometimes clog up the channels to compassion. So knowing that this perspective is not universal, but temporarily (at least) healing to me, a particular body with a life situation that gives me access to this kind of thinking, I explore taking a maternal perspective toward my body.
